


Wouldn't Think to Look at Me

by Star_Tsar



Series: Conversation Piece [3]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 21:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20713145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Tsar/pseuds/Star_Tsar
Summary: In the aftermath of the Moon’s invasion, Huey is sent down to the Money Bin’s laboratory to help Dr. Gearloose. Expecting to spend the afternoon recalibrating scientific instruments, Huey instead finds Gyro angrily sulking after a tantrum.





	Wouldn't Think to Look at Me

Huey set the chromium plated handlebars of his red Schwinn Hornet against one of the towering heaps of concrete rubble in the Money Bin’s courtyard. Getting to the Bin was an adventure in itself, navigating the ruined streets of Duckburg on two wheels, but Huey was here now and more than willing to help Dr. Gearloose. How hard could it be, after all, to recalibrate the odd instrument here and there? Or guide a stray clone through the metaphysical hell of ontological and epistemological self-certainty? 

You can’t always predict the sort of problems precipitated by the Moon invading Earth, and Gyro was rarely willing to accept help for even trivial, everyday hiccups. But Uncle Scrooge was used to placating the tortured, quixotic genius of Dr. Gearloose, and carefully made the split-second decision to send his great-nephew Huey (who fortunately happened to be the only person close at hand) down to the Money Bin’s lab to rein in the good doctor.

It shouldn’t have been difficult in the slightest. Not for Huey, anyway, for whom Gyro Gearloose was a kindred spirit. 

The lobby seemed in nice enough condition, only fine patches of dust on the carpet, probably knocked free from the ceiling by suborbital alien bombardment. If the lobby looked this good, then Gyro’s underwater laboratory couldn’t have been so affected by the invasion, could it? But there were many finely-tuned scientific instruments housed in the lab, and who’s to say what sort of cosmic radiation those golden rockets might have been belting out when they landed, knocking everything from magnetographs to spectrometers out of whack?

The ‘down’ button lit up at Huey’s press, hailing the elevator, and just as the duckling was beginning to consider the much safer prospect of using the stairs, the silvery steel doors parted.

“Huey!” Fenton grinned, stark and empty-handed in the elevator. His tie was noticeably straightened (noticeable to Huey, anyway), and appeared almost constrictive.

“Hi, Fenton,” Huey smiled back. “Were you helping Dr. Gearloose?”

Fenton’s grin seemed to falter. “Is that why you’re here?” he asked, the slightest shade of worry dancing across his face.

“Yes. Uncle Scrooge asked me to come,” Huey answered, calm but enthusiastic -- and still smiling.

“Oh, Huey...” Fenton sighed, like a parent about to disappoint. But then he was quiet a moment, seemingly searching for the right words, and then cocked his head as though he were arguing with himself. “Well,” he began, sounding a little more positive.

“What?” Huey stepped into the elevator, and Fenton stepped out.

“Maybe you can help Gyro... after all, you always make me feel better!” Fenton hesitantly answered, forcing cheer in his voice.

What was that supposed to mean? The elevator doors closed before Huey could ask, and the duckling had little time to wonder before the metal box in which he stood began hurdling down to its destination. 

He hated this sensation, being in a moving elevator. The brutal velocity of it. But he clenched his teeth and closed his eyes and suffered through: his tightening stomach, his crawling flesh, and the cold, quiet, squealing slither downward. His mind latched onto the last image he saw, and for the long ride he could only picture the pained grin on Fenton’s face as the doors shut before it.

The ride lasted longer than it should have. Or seemed to, anyway.

The elevator hissed into place, and Huey’s knotted muscles relaxed. The doors reopened, and Huey barely had time to register Manny’s familiar but grotesque form before the marble equine blundered in, his stone flesh scuffed in places.

Rather than make idle conversation with a possessed horse statue, Huey stepped out and into the hallway to the lab.

“Go… home...” Manny clip-clopped in morse code.

“Okay,” Huey assumed the message to mean Manny was going home. “Uh, see you later.”

The doors closed again and Manny was gone, shooting upward along with whatever response he had in mind (if Manny had a mind). Huey shrugged it away.

The hallway leading into the lab was calm but not quiet, with something akin to music blaring out from the laboratory. With time changes from three-four to five-eight, slurring synthesizers and dueling xylophones, Huey identified the piece as being one of Zappa’s celebrated ‘Dog Breath’ variations. At least Gyro had good taste in music.

Waddling up to the door, Huey investigated a pile of refuse that caught his eye back when the elevator opened. Next to the lab’s entrance, laying crippled in a heap, was one of Li’l Bulb’s copies, its light bulb head shattered. Dried in small amounts on the glass was a reddish-brown substance, easily identifiable (though Huey tried to fool himself).

“Thermionic emission of the tungsten filament?” Huey thought, but who was he kidding? It was blood.

He quickly drilled himself on the basics of first-aid and opened the door.

“Manny?! I-” Dr. Gearloose screamed incredulously, apoplectic as he wrenched around in his seat to glare at whoever stood in the doorway. Seeing Huey, Gyro’s anger seemed to abate (or at least retreat within) as he turned back to his desk and continued sulking. There wasn’t any visible blood, and he seemed to be in good (physical) condition.

But what small relief the duckling might have felt from knowing Gyro wasn’t hurt quickly faded into hideous awe at the calamitous state of the lab.

Huey stood silently, peering over the ruin. Tables and chairs, and even some machinery was laying overturned amid wildly scattered blueprints and documents, some whole and others ripped to shreds. None of it appeared to be a result, directly, of the invasion.

No, Dr. Gearloose had done this to his laboratory, himself. 

Gyro was sat sullenly at his work desk, the only unmolested furniture in the place, with a nondescript glass bottle of some yellow substance, open and next to a stained cloth rag.

Gyro turned the music off just as the album was transitioning into ‘Electric Aunt Jemima’ and, without once looking at Huey, annoyedly asked, “What do you want, kid?” 

“Uncle Scrooge asked me to come help you,” Huey answered, the word ‘help’ catching in his throat.

“Oh yeah?!” Gyro responded, his acerbic wit failing him. “Well, you can tell ‘Uncle’ Scrooge to…” he trailed off from there, mumbling obscenities; but nothing Huey hadn’t heard on occasion from Donald or Della. Toward the end of his inaudible tirade, Gyro opened and slammed shut a desk drawer, just to make noise.

There was a long pause, Gyro still slumped aloofly and Huey standing around awkwardly, a slight anxiety growing in his chest.

“Um,” Huey started, trying to take the edge out of the halted conversation. “I, uh… ‘Uncle Meat’ is a good album -- I like it, too. Zappa was a great composer, although, I prefer his ‘Civilization Phaze III’ myself.” 

Gyro was quiet, and Huey hoped he had impressed the scientist with his musical acumen.

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Gyro scoffed, condescending and seeming to imply some insult too vague to grasp.

Another pause, but less stressful than the first.

Huey quietly waddled up to Gyro’s desk, and saw the doctor’s bandaged right hand -- tinges of red and pink staining the down feathers peeking out from the gauze. Huey could smell blood and sweat, and even felt body heat as he brushed passed Gyro to peep the rag and bottle.

The rag was stained a deep yellow, probably dabbed with whatever substance sat beside it. The bottle was open and half emptied, and Gyro was ignoring or trying to ignore Huey even for their close proximity, so the duckling took just enough of a whiff to identify the substance’s odor. It was dry and sweet, like an overripe fruit, and not entirely pleasant.

“Is this… Diethyl Oxide?” Huey asked, trying to sound hip and not concerned for his family friend.

“Yes, and it’s called ‘ether’, kid. Do you call salt ‘sodium chloride’, too?” spat Gyro, a nerve struck. “You can extract it from starter fluid, with water, and in Slovakia they drink the stuff,” he continued, trying to convince himself more than Huey that it wasn’t a big deal. 

Gyro, in the course of arguing, made eye contact with Huey, and they both looked away. Huey never liked eye contact, and now knew Dr. Gearloose didn’t either.

Another pause, then Gyro went on, angrily mumbling, “Ether, I mean, not water. Although I’m sure Slovakians drink water, too. Of course, I mean-… Oh, shut up.”

Huey noticed an pestering sound accompanying Gyro’s little rant, something like water dripping. Then he saw an unlabeled medicine bottle in the doctor’s left hand, and he was flipping its hinged lid open and closed as a nervous tic. There were pills, or tablets in it.

“I would imagine those are benzodiazepines, if this is ether?” said Huey, getting carried away with the investigation and realizing too late that it would just set Dr. Gearloose off again.

Gyro scowled, and in the course of thinking up another sardonic cruelty started to smile. He flipped the pill bottle open and shoved it in front of the duckling, saying, “Yeah! Do you want some? First one’s free.”

Huey couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

“Just don’t tell mom, okay?” Gyro asked, insulting Huey’s age. Then he flipped the bottle closed, folded his arms, and resumed sulking. “It’s xanax,” he finally answered, looking away and probably hoping Huey would leave him alone if he knew.

A lesser man would have taken his lumps and left, but Huey’s inquiring mind had to know.

“So you’re using xanax, and because benzodiazepines interact negatively with alcohol, you’re huffing ether to get drunk?” Huey couldn’t read people, even for all his smarts.

“Oh for-... Yes! Okay?! Are you happy?! Give the gold medal to Detective Pubert!” Gyro threw up his hands, less sarcastic than just cruel.

At least Dr. Gearloose knew Huey’s name; or a childish, bullying approximation of it (but nothing he didn’t get called on a daily basis by Dewey and Louie).

Huey decided to give Gyro a little space after that outburst, and began cleaning the lab. He started by setting straight what furniture and machinery wasn’t broken, which was most of it, being that metal and plastic were the common materials of its construction and Gyro wasn’t very strong. What was broken, however, he tried to fix, and what he couldn’t fix he set apart on one side of the lab for a later, more detailed examination.

After this first phase of cleaning was finished, and before Huey started gathering and organizing the stray paperwork, he decided to check on Dr. Gearloose. From a distance he appeared no different than before, still sulking at his desk, sometimes laying his head down, but always angry and ignoring Huey. He hadn’t turned the music back on, though, which probably would have helped him to ignore the duckling. Maybe he wanted to hear if Huey broke anything by accident, thereby giving him another chance to scream abuse at someone.

“Dr. Gearloose,” Huey heard himself say, not sure how to follow. “Um… Is this a regular thing, for you?” he asked, obviously referring to the drug abuse.

“Only when aggravating little know-it-all brats show up to annoy the fu-...! Annoy me!” Gyro yelled in reply.

“...O-okay,” said Huey, not wanting to seem rude by staying silent, then he started picking up the loose documents laying around. He would sweep up and reconstruct the shredded ones afterward.

“Hey, Huey… you sure you don’t want a xanny?” Gyro hissed after awhile, almost seductively. “You have ASD, right? It’ll take the edge off…” he shook the bottle.

“That’s not funny, Dr. Gearloose,” a quiet, diffident rejection. Gyro let it drop and Huey went on gathering the papers.

A few minutes of picking and sorting later, Huey had managed to collate the papers according to the project each documented, most of them being older, completed inventions. He took a broom from the supply closet and swept up the pieces of paper Gyro had torn before he arrived.

Huey heard Gyro pop another xanax, and turned to see the scientist curled up dejectedly, head on desk. He would try to get to the bottom of it after he’d finished sweeping.

Glancing occasionally over the gathered shreds he swept underfoot, and then mentally piecing them all back together, Huey realized that each shred came from a single project: ‘Bulb Tech’. Specifically, the schematics for the Li’l Bulb prototype.

Gyro had gone rummaging through all of his old files to find Li’l Bulb’s blueprint, just to rip it up.

Huey thought he heard Dr. Gearloose cough, but it was followed by rippling breaths and sniffing. It sounded as though he were huffing more ether, but when Huey looked over, Gyro was trying not sob -- his face hidden and back heaving.

It might have been more prudent to ask from a distance, considering Gyro’s volatile attitude that day, but Huey waddled over to stand beside him.

“What happened to Li’l Bulb?” Huey asked, tenderly.

“It died,” Gyro croaked, glaring at Huey with reddened eyes. “I mean it was damaged beyond repair. Stupid machines don’t ‘die’,” he put his head in his hands.

It? Not he? Huey wouldn’t press him on it, Dr. Gearloose said ‘it’ deliberately and they both knew why.

“Is, um…” Huey faltered, but knew he had to ask for Gyro’s own good. “Is that why you’re using these... substances? Because Li’l Bu-”

“I don’t care about some stupid f-fucking robot, kid!” screamed Gyro, a few trembling words sticking in his throat, and Huey winced. “What kind of fucking moron would I have to be?! To care about a stupid object?!”

Dr. Gearloose put his head back in his hands, and was now openly crying -- not even trying to hide it. Huey tentatively put a hand on Gyro’s back, then rubbed reassuringly when he wasn’t rebuffed.

“It’s never stupid to love something, Dr. Gearloose,” Huey gently squeezed his shoulder.

“I-I didn’t… I…” Gyro spat out a few fractured words, before sobbing harder than before.

Huey stood there, comforting Gyro for five, ten, however many minutes it took for him to stop grieving. From the hard, howling sobs to the final moaning sniffles. And, even after, the two birds sat in silence for awhile; Gyro staring ahead in silence and Huey reassuringly rubbing his back.

“Huey,” Gyro’s tone suggested he was finished with his tantrums, if a little restrained by the drugs in his system.

“Yes, Dr. Gearloose?” answered Huey.

Gyro pointed to a broken chair. “The casters pop right back onto that chair, and the leg snaps into the base at the elbow, but you need leverage to do it,” he stood up, wiping off his trousers and straightening his tie. “I’ll hold the seat, and you put everything back on.”

Huey nodded.

“And then you can help me fix the rest of this crap,” Gyro gestured to the other broken apparatuses.

“I’d love to,” Huey replied.


End file.
